


The Strand Ephemera

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Depression, Gen, One Shot Collection, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:39:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot collection of all the moments from throughout Holmes and Watson's careers that we never see.  Because they're just as interesting eating breakfast as they are solving cases.  Will be updated as inspiration strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discretion and Trust

A/N Set around 1885

“Watson, did you have any plans for tonight?” Holmes asked as I entered our sitting room after making my rounds. 

“No,” I answered truthfully; sitting by the fire reading the evening newspaper could hardly be counted as plans. 

Holmes nodded in satisfaction, “Good. I received a telegram requesting an audience with me tonight at seven o’clock, and as it is nearly seven now, our visitor will be arriving soon.”

“Did he leave you any details of the case?” I asked with interest, settling into my armchair.

Holmes shook his head, “No, I am in as much suspense as you, Watson.” He fell silent, his head cocked to one side. “Although not for much longer.” Almost as he finished speaking, the bell rang and I heard Mrs. Hudson ushering our visitor inside. 

The man who entered our sitting room was tall, with dark hair and beard. He wore thin glasses, and clothing made of the most expensive material. His bearing suggested a noble birth and upbringing. 

“I am Lord Bulworth,” the visitor announced. “No doubt you have seen my name or that of my family in the society pages.”

“Indeed I have,” I answered, knowing that Holmes did not read the society pages. It seemed to me imprudent to insult such a man by ignoring his stature when he called on us for help.

“Excuse me, which of you gentlemen is Sherlock Holmes?” Lord Bulworth asked, surveying the room.

“I am Holmes,” my companion said, rising from his chair. “This is my esteemed friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

Bulworth nodded in my direction, then turned to Holmes, “I take it you received my telegram of this morning?” Holmes indicated that he had, sitting back down and offering the settee to our visitor, who declined it. “I was rather hoping you could help me. I must say, I am at my wit’s end to consult a detective, as I would prefer that this business is kept out of the public eye.”

“Many such noble houses have relied on our discretion,” Holmes said. Bulworth nodded, glancing at me again, then continued.

“I have two tickets for the last train leaving London. My estate is in Kent, and I believe it would be beneficial for you to look at the – well, the scene where it all took place.” The nobleman appeared to be keeping his reason for consulting Holmes secret, for no reason I could tell. Holmes sat up with interest.

“I make it a habit never to go anywhere without first determining if it is necessary for me to do so,” Holmes said. “Watson here will tell you that I am often able to bring a case to a satisfactory conclusion without leaving this chair. Please, tell us your story.”

Bulworth seemed even more ill at ease with this invitation, “I would rather not say here. I can relate the story to you on arrival, where I can show you in detail the layout of the scene. It really is a matter of utmost delicacy and is rather difficult to explain without your presence at my estate. And, of course, assurances of your discretion.”

“I believe I have already answered that question,” Holmes said. His tone was unfailingly polite, but I could detect the annoyance in his voice. 

Lord Bulworth made no such attempt to hide his displeasure; although he did not raise his voice, his attitude grew more imperious. This was a man used to being obeyed in all things. “See here, Mr. Holmes, it is a great disturbance to someone in my position to consult a detective at all. I am here at the request of my family, but I assure you, I will speak only to you in the privacy of my own home. Not here with whomever you deem fit to hear my private business!”

Suddenly the matter became clear to me, and I quietly stood up and began to leave the room. My own embarrassment was of no matter; I did not expect to help Holmes on every case. It was just as well that he solve this one alone, as he had done on so many others.

“Watson, stay where you are,” Holmes said. Had such a request in such a tone come from any other man, I would have called it an order. Turning around, I saw Holmes standing, facing our visitor, anger evident in his expression. “Dr. Watson is my trusted friend and companion. I will hear no slight, overt or otherwise, regarding his discretion.”

“Mr. Holmes, my family will not hear of our private business being bandied about in front of some fellow we do not know!”

“Then I will not hear of your business, or of your case. Good night, sir,” Holmes said with an air of finality, handing our visitor his hat. 

Lord Bulworth appeared astonished. It seemed to me that he was not used to being refused, certainly not by someone in as inferior a position as he deemed Holmes to be, comparable to himself. Stiffly, he accepted his hat, bid us good night, and left. Holmes glared at the door until the sound of his footfalls faded and we heard the front door shut behind him.

“Holmes, you did not even wait to hear his case,” I said, in some confusion.

“No, Watson, I did not,” Holmes answered. 

“It may have been something interesting,” I said. “Why, only this morning you were lamenting the lack of interesting crimes since the capture of the Pressing and Field counterfeiters.”

“Interesting as it may be, he was most condescending in his attitude toward you, was he not, Watson?” 

I affirmed that he was, and Holmes nodded. “A precedent has been set tonight. Those who consult me know that my friend Dr. Watson is on occasion good enough to assist me in solving these little problems, and if they wish me to solve their cases, they will accept your help also. Should it be required, of course.” He turned back to the newspaper, as if he had said nothing more important than a remark on the damp weather outside.

“Well, thank you, Holmes,” I said. “I do enjoy helping you on your cases; it would grieve me to know that your clients did not trust me as they do you.”

“Rest assured, my dear Watson, my clients will trust you as I do. If they do not, they will simply have to find a different detective.”

I smiled, “You know, Holmes, you may destroy your career.”

“Certainly not, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed.

“How can you be so sure?”

“My dear fellow, there simply are no other detectives. At least, no other consulting detectives. I did say I invented the job.” Holmes smiled at his own cleverness and I was unable to prevent myself from laughing out loud. “Those clients who object to your presence will quickly learn not to, or else trust themselves to the dubious abilities of Scotland Yard. Pass me the agony column when you are finished with it.”

I chuckled to myself, passing over the desired section of the newspaper, reflecting that he, who trusted no one, had shown an extraordinary trust in me after only two years acquaintance. I only hoped I would prove to be worthy of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little morning discussion about Watson's reading habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this more as an exercise in writing the Holmes Canon than anything else, but I didn't want anyone to think I'd forgotten about this one-shot collection, so here it is.

I read the story with some amusement; a report on the Australian gold fields written by someone who had clearly never been to Australia. “Ha!” I exclaimed as I laid the paper aside, “Preposterous.”

“My dear Watson, perhaps you should write the newspaper’s descriptions of Australia yourself if you do not agree with their depiction of it,” Sherlock Holmes said matter-of-factly from the chemical table across the room.

As usual, I was taken aback by his ability to deduce my thoughts without my articulating them. “It is a matter of little importance, but demonstrates an annoying lack of facts nonetheless,” I said, “How the deuce did you know I was reading about Australia anyway?”

Holmes turned around, a light dancing in his eyes. “You are most expressive in your reading, my dear fellow. Particularly when you do not agree with the author’s opinions. In the last fifteen minutes, I have heard you mutter under your breath no fewer than five times opinions on the author’s ignorance in varying states of amusement and aggravation. You do not follow sporting news. You certainly would not have paid that much attention to social columns. Had you been reading war news, you undoubtedly would have been more somber; a professional treatise, quieter and more studious, and criminal news, you would certainly have called my attention to the story in question. Only Australia could produce that exact reaction in you.”

I flushed, for I must have been engrossed indeed not to notice that I was disturbing him. “I apologize, my dear fellow, if I disturbed your experiments.”

“Nonsense!” Holmes cried, “It was most informative and entertaining. You are a fascinating study, Watson.”

“Yes, well, I do not like to see a young nation that has every chance of achieving greatness so disparaged for its youth and somewhat wild origins,” I answered.

“I do not know much of Australia,” Holmes said, “Aside from the many very interesting criminal records which come out of that country.”

“It is a wild place,” I admitted, for there was no other way to describe the gold fields, where lawmen were few and far between, and the law more a matter of choice than of necessity. “My uncle was a prospector there, and I spent a year there as a boy.”

“Was it truly as wild as the criminal records state?” Holmes asked, “Having never been there myself, your first-hand experience might be of great use to me.”

Gratified to be in the unusual position of being more knowledgeable than Holmes, I thought deeply about my response. “It was over twenty years ago that I lived there, but it is a land of contrasts. The cities of Sydney and Melbourne were growing at a rapid rate when I passed through, with a great jumble of people, but the government was attempting to bring some culture to its people. In the twenty years since, I have no doubt that the cities have become more respectable. Even then, there was an elite that was as conscious of its status as any of our English aristocrats.”

“And the gold fields?” Holmes asked, fixing me with his formidable stare.

“They operated on their own form of law. The gold fields attracted many types of people, from hard working emigrants trying to start a new life, to criminals trying to hide from the law. The mix of people could be…explosive, and fights or theft were not uncommon. In fact, I believe you would find much to occupy yourself with in an Australian gold field,” I added, causing Holmes to burst into a rare fit of laughter.

“It is the sort of place where one must carry a pistol at all times simply for safety,” I continued. “In fact, it was my uncle who taught me to shoot during my time there. But it is also a place of incredible hope and freedom. The thought that at any time one might strike it rich is a powerful feeling and the atmosphere is charged with it. And the landscape is starkly beautiful. It is a place for fresh starts, away from old rules and beliefs, if that is what one needs.” 

I finished, thinking over my time there, wondering if I would ever have chance to return and how changed I would find the country that had given me my first taste of adventure. It was always something of a shock to me that I had more life experience than Holmes, whose great intellect belied the fact that he had never yet left Europe. It was gratifying that there was something to balance the scales in our relationship, and I mused that the mix of his genius and my practical experience in other matters was probably why we worked so well together. 

Although the odor now emanating from the chemical apparatus told me that perhaps we did not need to work together right at this moment, as I exited to continue my reading in my blissfully odor-free bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3: The Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watsons are hosting a dinner party, and want to make sure their guest of honor has a good time. A quick addition just so no one thinks I've abandoned this story.

“I don’t think he’ll come,” I said to Mary as we looked through our address book. 

“Oh but John, it’s our first dinner party!” Mary said brightly, writing out an invitation to her former employer. “All of our friends will there, it would be such a shame for him to miss it.”

“Yes, but you know Holmes,” I said. “There are few things he dislikes more than socializing, even with those few he considers friends.” 

Mary sighed, “I know. I don’t want to put him in an uncomfortable situation, but I know how much it would mean to you for him to be there.” She looked down at our admittedly small guest list. “Most of these people are my friends and acquaintances, not yours.”

It was true that I had gained few friends other than Holmes myself and I smiled ruefully, “Perhaps I should judge him less since I seem to have done no better!” I supposed to an outsider we would appear as very similar; two loners who found their society in each other. For many years that had been true, until I found my Mary. What good fortune for me, although I still felt badly about leaving Holmes on his own. 

“Besides, my friends all want to meet the detective who brought us together and who features so heavily in your writings,” Mary said shyly.

I raised an eyebrow at her, “Are you putting Holmes on display?” 

“Oh, John,” Mary said, laughing. “Of course not, but you have to admit people are interested in him. Besides, I daresay you’re the one putting him on display in A Study in Scarlet.”

I couldn’t argue with that; Holmes had said as much himself. I took one of the invitations and wrote his name in myself, adding a note:

My Dear Holmes, 

I know how much you abhor social occasions, but I ask you to make an exception for our first dinner party. Your presence would mean a great deal to me.

Yours sincerely, 

John Watson

 

Mary had already declared the party a great success after the first half hour. She was surrounded by friends in our sitting room, discussing the decorations of our new home and our honeymoon experiences. I must confess I was feeling slightly left out when the maid announced Holmes’s presence. He slunk in behind her, as if trying to appear invisible against the back wall, but I smiled broadly and welcomed him with a warm handshake.

“Holmes! It is good to see you,” I said, then, lowering my voice, “Thank you for coming. I know you would prefer to be alone with your chemicals and violin.”

Holmes gave me a small smile, “Nonsense, Watson. I would not be so remiss as to be absent from your first dinner party. Good evening, Mrs. Watson,” he said, turning to my wife.

“Oh, good evening, Mr. Holmes!” Mary said. “This is my husband’s friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“The detective?” One of Mary’s friends asked incredulously. “I did so enjoy A Study in Scarlet.” From that instant, Holmes was surrounded by curious friends and, I was relieved to see, seemed to be reveling in the attention. 

“I’ve never seen him so in demand,” I whispered to Mary, as the group gasped at Holmes deducing Mary’s former employer.

“He seems to be enjoying himself,” she said. 

“Genius needs an audience,” I said, watching him discuss the latest series of concerts he had been to with our neighbors. I knew Holmes had impeccable manners when he chose, and I was grateful that he made the effort tonight. He even ate most of the dinner we had ordered prepared.

“I am certain Mrs. Hudson does not know you have this much of an appetite,” I said in an undertone to Holmes, seated at my right. He started to laugh through his serving of roast chicken. 

“No, but then she does not send me invitations and seat me at the place of honor.” 

I could not help laughing either, “I’ll be sure to tell her that next time I see her.” 

“Thank you for coming, Holmes,” I said, as our guests prepared to leave. “I promise these will not be too often an occurrence.”

“It was no trouble at all, Watson. It was a most enjoyable evening,” Holmes said. 

“I’m glad to know I am somewhere at the same level as your Stradivarius or your chemicals,” I retorted as he left.

“That was quite a success,” I remarked to Mary. “Even Holmes enjoyed himself.”

“Well then, it truly was a success,” she answered with a smile. “Although I doubt he would enjoy a party thrown by the Queen herself as much as one of yours. He rates you very highly, you know.”

“I know,” I said, “Holmes is quite particular in who he associates with.”

“Well, we are very lucky he is partial to us,” Mary said, and I heartily agreed.


	4. A Suitable Payment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes's Stradivarius is getting a little beat up. This is how he stumbled onto a much better one.

“Come, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said as we made our way through the streets of Berlin. “I told our client we would call on him at eight and it is almost eight now.”

I tore my gaze from the sights of the city, one which had only risen to prominence in international politics in the last twenty years. It was a very different city from London or Edinburgh; the weight of years was less visible here, but there was an unmistakable aura of progress. “I am still unsure why you did not take our client up on his offer to stay in his home during our stay. We know no one here, and as we have already seen, our German is barely proficient.” Having a local guide would only have made our stay easier. It had taken almost fifteen minutes to ask for directions to our hotel. Finally, between my schoolboy German and Holmes’s natural ear for languages, we managed it, but I had found the experience disconcerting.

Holmes smiled, “Watson, you know I prefer to remain independent as much as possible, and accepting our client’s hospitality would have interfered too much with the investigation for my liking.” 

I shook my head, knowing Holmes’s stubbornness. Although he had, on previous occasions, stayed with a client during the course of an investigation, I knew he was much more comfortable with only myself as companion, or else alone. He far preferred the inconvenience of traveling in a foreign country without knowing the language to being at the mercy of a host.

We were approaching our client’s residence, a handsome house of palatial size that seemed to be one of the city’s oldest residences. A servant answered the door and led us into what I presumed to be the study, where a strongly-built man at least a decade older than either Holmes or I waited.

“Good afternoon,” our host said in perfect, but heavily accented English. “I am Herr Gunther Wassermein. I am so happy you were able to come to Berlin to help me sort out this problem.”

Holmes stopped looking around the foyer and said. “This is my friend and associate, Dr. Watson.”

Herr Wassermein nodded to me, then said, “I have been almost distraught these last few days. I cannot imagine what has happened to my prize diamond. I was sure I put it right back in the safe but when I looked, it was not there.” Seeing the confusion on both our faces, he smiled ruefully. “I am sorry, perhaps I should begin again. While I do so, I will show you the places in the house that figure in my story.”

Herr Wassermein led us into his library, telling us of a prize diamond he had bought from an explorer in the recent acquisitions of German West Africa. After putting it away in the safe one night, he had had a horrible dream that it was stolen, and rising to check on it, had found it missing.

“I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that there was someone in my home that night, but I saw nothing of them,” Herr Wassermein assured us. Holmes ignored him, the familiar gleam of the hunt in his eyes. He looked over the entire room in his methodical way. He seemed especially interested in the safe, asking if it had come with the house and if the combination had been changed. Wassermein admitted it had been there before he’d bought the house, and that the lock had not been changed to his knowledge. Once or twice after that Holmes exclaimed softly, but explained nothing. Herr Wassermein and I watched with interest until the detective stood up and brushed off his clothes as if he had done nothing unusual.

“I see several points of interest here,” Holmes declared. Surveying the room once more, his gaze fell upon a handsome violin in a glass case. His eyes widened. “Is that a Stradivarius?”

“Yes, it is,” Herr Wassermein said proudly. “I do not play, myself, but I occasionally loan it to the Berlin Philharmonic. Not too often, of course. Do you play, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, I do,” Holmes said with a hint of wistfulness in his tone, before the steel returned to his face and he swept out the door, leaving me to take our leave of Herr Wassermein.

Holmes said little for the remainder of the night, and I was unable to tell if his silence was due to his concentration on the case or the knowledge that such a handsome instrument was so close. He had been complaining about his own Stradivarius for some time, saying that it had a beat-up appearance and no longer produced the same sweetness of sound. Only last week I had to rescue the instrument from ending its days in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen cabinets after his latest fit of frustration. I myself had told him at the time that it was probably not the soundest decision to buy a violin for only fifty-five shillings in a broker’s, Stradivarius or no. Holmes always laughed off my concerns and professed he could not afford anything better than what he already owned. He was an accomplished musician when he chose to truly play instead of merely scratching at the strings and I felt it a shame that such a great student of music should have to struggle with an inferior instrument while someone who did not even play owned something so fine.

It proved to be a simple enough case; the previous owner of the house had retained a key without Herr Wassermein’s knowledge, and having fallen on hard times after using up the funds from the sale of the house, thought he would help himself to some of his successor’s riches. Holmes unveiled the diamond in his typically dramatic fashion, maintaining his silence until he could bring the diamond to Herr Wassermein’s study and unveil it there.

“It proved to be easy to track; it was common knowledge that this was the largest diamond yet mined in German West Africa,” Holmes explained. “As such, it would have been very difficult to sell, since most buyers knew you owned it already.”

“Why, Mr. Holmes, this is incredible. You are truly worthy of your reputation!” Wassermein said in awe, shaking my friend’s hand in gratitude. “Please tell me how I can reward you, and your friend, for your assistance.”

“I have told you my fees,” Holmes said. “However, if there were something else I would like…?”

“You have only to name it, my dear sir!”

Holmes strode over to the glass case and motioned to the Stradivarius. “I should very much like to have this violin, if it is not objectionable to you?”

Wassermein hesitated for only a moment before breaking out in a grin, “It is no trouble. I would have paid you twice its worth had you asked. The violin is yours, sir.”

Holmes’s normally pale face flushed with gratitude, “Then I thank you, sir. You have made me very happy, and I suspect, saved Watson from many concerts on a less musically sound instrument.” He shot me a mischievous look and I resisted the urge to laugh.

Holmes could hardly wait to return to the hotel room that night, rushing through our dinner so he could begin playing his new violin. During our much shortened meal, he regaled me with the history of Stradivarius and why his violins were the best ever made. Once in our hotel room, he set bow to strings and slowly drew out the loveliest note that I had ever heard. It was not difficult to see that this violin was far superior to the one her already owned, and Holmes’s face appeared enraptured. He played the entire night, almost exhausting his considerable repertoire of memorized pieces, and taking any requests I could give him. His joy was so palpable I did not even mind being kept up all night by violin music. He was as accomplished a musician as he was a detective, and I thought with some regret that the world had lost a fine violinist the day Holmes chose to pursue detective work as a career.

Then again, the world had also lost a criminal of rare ability, so on balance I supposed one should be grateful Holmes had chosen to be what he was. There were many violinists, and more than enough criminals, but I have yet to see another detective even close to his abilities.


	5. Chapter 5

I had not seen my friend Sherlock Holmes for more than a few minutes for several days. He ran in and out of our shared rooms at odd intervals, sometimes in various disguises, at other times in his own impeccable dress.

“Are you sure you do not need me on this case?” I asked him when I reentered the room after his latest client left. Although I had already assisted him on a few of the little problems people brought to him, I was, in those days, hardly the constant presence at his side many readers of my later stories seemed to think I was. However, I now knew him well enough to know how little care he took with his own health when on the chase. 

“Not at all, Watson, my dear fellow,” Holmes said cheerily. “It should not prove to be a very difficult case. I doubt it should take more than a couple of days to work out. Don’t wait for me for dinner.” With that, he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. I shrugged and turned back to my reading, the latest medical journal from the Medical Society of London. If I wanted to return to practice in any capacity more serious than the few jobs I had had substituting for other doctors, I would have to keep up with the latest research.

“That was loud,” Mrs. Hudson remarked, entering the sitting room. “I do hope he didn’t break anything.”

I suppressed a laugh, “It does not seem so, Mrs. Hudson.” She shook her head and began to leave, muttering something under her breath about consulting detectives and disregard for furniture and walls. 

“He didn’t mention any instructions for his dinner, did he, Dr. Watson?” our landlady asked before closing the door. 

“Oh, he mentioned to me not to wait for him to dine. I would assume he has no plans to return until late at night,” I answered. 

Mrs. Hudson sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, “He never tells me anything. Thank you, Doctor.” She closed the door behind her, and I returned to my reading, interrupted only by the arrival of my dinner several hours later.

Holmes did not return until after midnight, if he returned at all. In any case, I was long asleep. 

The next day, Holmes was already gone before I awoke, although I had determined to be ready early as I had some advertisements for medical positions I wished to answer in person. I did not return until mid-afternoon, when I entered our sitting room to find Holmes seated in the middle of the floor surrounded by what appeared to be financial papers.

“Have you solved it?” I asked by way of greeting.

“No, Watson, it appears this case may be more baffling than I anticipated,” Holmes said, not looking up from the circle of papers he had created. “It is fascinating how the smallest problems are often the most challenging and unique. For example, I wager you would not have guessed that one man’s concern for his wife’s pearl earrings would involve a connection to an underground gambling ring and the Bank of England!”

“No, I would not have guessed that,” I said, waiting expectantly for more. However, Holmes was in a reticent mood and said no more, instead gathering up all the papers and leaving again, saying only that he would not be home yet again for dinner. I sighed and settled into the armchair with the newspaper. I was quite used to his odd hours, but I did hope he would be all right. I knew now how dangerous his cases could be, and quite often they did not seem to be so until it was almost too late.

I only saw him twice in the next two days, both times leaving disguised as a dockworker, obviously headed for less reputable London neighborhoods. I repeated my offer of assistance, to which he replied, “No, Watson, I shall be quite all right. Be sure to tell Mrs. Hudson-“

“-that you shall not be back in time for dinner,” I finished. “I know. Be careful, Holmes.”

“I will,” Holmes called up the stairs as he left. 

By the next evening, I was growing quite concerned. This case had obviously proved to be more complicated than he had initially thought, and I fervently wished he had thought to include me. But, I reasoned, he undoubtedly knew what he was doing.

I glanced up from my reading a couple of hours later, this time a yellow-backed novel I had begun several days previously but been unable to sustain enough interest in to finish. The clock indicated that it was only nine o clock, and I sighed. I was growing very bored, and I wished more than ever that Holmes had decided he needed my help after all.

I must have fallen into a light sleep, for barely ten minutes later, I was awakened by the sound of the door opening, and I jumped slightly. I calmed down once I realized it was only Holmes. 

“Well, I think I have solved it,” he said quietly. I surveyed him carefully. Holmes was not one to show weakness of any sort; it was one of the first things I had discovered about him, but now his eyes appeared dull and he was leaning against the doorframe tiredly.

“Holmes! Are you all right?” I asked, jumping up in concern.

“I-” Holmes began before swaying and collapsing to the floor. 

“Holmes!” I cried, rushing to his side. He did not appear to be injured, merely exhausted. I wondered if he had driven himself beyond his endurance, then chided myself for it. Of course he had. He had made it clear to me that he considered the demands of the human body to be mere distractions from the work of the mind.

“This is exactly why you should have let me accompany you!” I said irritably as I gently moved him from the floor to the armchair. “Holmes? Can you hear me?’

He began to stir, blinking up at me. “Watson? What happened?”

“As near as I can tell, you fainted,” I answered, smiling in my relief that he did not appear to be any worse for wear. “What the deuce have you been doing?”

“I have been working on my case,” he said stubbornly, starting to sit up. Evidently the movement did not agree with him, for he placed a hand against his head and sat down again. “I did not expect it to take as long as all this.”

“It’s been five days. Have you even slept?” I asked.

“I am sure I must have,” Holmes said, thinking. “It is probably more due to the fact that I don’t eat on cases.”

I had thought I no longer had the ability to be surprised by anything Holmes did. It would appear that I was wrong. “You don’t…eat. On cases?”

“Digestion slows me down,” Holmes said, as if this was a perfectly ordinary belief to hold. I sighed. He had evidently learned his health information the same way he had learned his astronomy; that is to say, not at all. I sighed.

“Holmes, the human body really is not designed to forgo food for five days straight. You are far too thin as it is. I insist you eat something right away. I will send for Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure she has something left over.” Holmes looked about to protest but I cut him off. “Holmes, if you would not allow me to assist you on this case, at least let me administer to your health.” God knows he needed someone to do so. 

Holmes acquiesced meekly, before looking up at me in the middle of his dinner with a mischievous grin, “I did not know sharing lodgings with a doctor would be such a chore.”

“Hmph,” I said. “You should be grateful. Promise me you’ll look out for yourself, Holmes. You’re no use to anyone if you don’t have the strength to solve cases.”

Holmes nodded, “Rest assured, Watson, I will be certain to listen to my doctor more carefully from now on.”

“Good,” I said, enjoying our positions being switched for once. It was not often I managed to have Holmes listen to me. “While we’re at it, we should probably discuss your tendency to leave your belongings everywhere.”

Holmes held up a long, thin hand, laughing. “I have limits, Watson.”

I shrugged with a good-natured smile, “I thought it was worth it to try.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather serious discussion of depression ahead.

I looked at the clock on the mantle as it rang three o'clock. That was all? Only three in the afternoon? When would this interminable day end?

There had been no clients, no inquiries sent through the post. Even Lestrade seemed able to handle himself without my assistance today. Without work, the day stretched long.

My eyes lingered on my violin, where I had thrown it aside after it failed to do what work ordinarily would: occupy my mind. I gazed over all my books, volumes on music, crime, history, philosophy and a few of my own authorship on prominent criminals and the finer points of detection. It seemed too much effort to move myself to go get one of these books, especially when it would solve nothing. When I had finished the book, I would still have no case. I would still be rotting away here with nothing of importance to devote myself to.

There was a knock at the door, and I looked up. Watson? Is that you? I hoped it was him. His rounds did not usually take him longer than this, and the sight of another person would be soothing, for once. A reminder that outside these walls there was still some kind of life.

"Afternoon, Holmes," Watson said with a smile as he walked in. I watched as he took in the clutter on the floor, where I had tried and failed to distract myself during the day. He looked surreptitiously at the mantle, and his expression brightened when he saw the Moroccan case still there, unopened. I had thought about it more than once, but then I thought how pointless even that was. It was only a balm for this existence, rendered meaningless without work.

"I hope your day was more productive than mine," I said, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. There was hardly any trace of mud on his shoes, but his limp was not so pronounced that he had to have taken a cab home due to pain. Then I saw the corner of a menu reading "Sp-" sticking out of his pocket. Not his rounds, then. Obviously a place far enough away that he was forced to take a hansom home, but not business related, for he certainly would not have gone to such expense. Ahh. Of course. I knew what it was.

"You have taken Miss Morstan to lunch," I said. "At the new restaurant Spencer’s, if I am not mistaken." He and I had discussed going on several occasions, and no doubt he grew tired of waiting. 

"Holmes, must you insist on knowing everything I do?" Watson asked tiredly, hanging up his coat. "It was a lovely meal."

"Watson, your everyday habits are so easily read, they hardly serve as practice for my powers," I said. Why wouldn't he simply leave? From having wanted his return, now all I wanted was to be alone again. Watson could never understand what it was like when there was no work. I barely understood it myself; I only knew that when I was unoccupied, these black thoughts threatened to overwhelm me, turning all that was once good in my life to mindless boredom.

Watson simply shook his head and went upstairs to his own room, I assumed to remember the undoubtedly better company of Miss Morstan. I could not find fault with him; I did not much want to associate with myself either at the moment.

Unfortunately, one cannot escape oneself.

The next day was Saturday, and as such Watson remained at home, doing some reading and answering his correspondence. I envied his ability to occupy himself, and wondered that he seemed immune to the ennui and pointlessness of life that plagued me.

I said little all morning, not stirring myself even to answer Watson's inquiries. After a time he gave up, which is what I wanted him to do, although when he stopped the sitting room was so silent I almost wished for an attempt on my life. It would at least occupy my time and my mind.

"Holmes, won't you eat something?" Watson asked. I groaned aloud; was it only time for luncheon? "You are far too thin, Holmes. Come, some food will do you good."

"Can't you see it, Watson?" I burst out, fed up with the lack of anything to do and such mundane company. "What is the purpose of eating if there is only to be more of this ahead of me?" I gestured around the room. "Are you so dense that you cannot see it?"

Watson very quietly set his napkin down, and I could tell he was angry. I did not regret what I had said, I truly meant every word. I could see no purpose in existing with nothing to occupy me. I deliberately did not look at him, the door closing being the only sign that he had left. 

I sighed, the thought that I might drift off to sleep the only hope I had of getting through this day.

I heard Watson return some hours later. It was already dark outside, and I did not even have to look at him to know he had spent the afternoon in his club. The distinctive odor of ships tobacco clung to his clothes, as it was the most popular form among the retired army surgeons who made up most of the members of his club. He must still have been angry, although I felt rather than saw that he came over the settee to check on me. I pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, Watson had obviously overcome his anger, because he smiled when he came down to breakfast. Then his smile faltered. “Holmes, did you go to bed at all last night?”

“I can sleep just as well on the settee, Doctor,” I said warningly, lest he thought he was going to diagnose me. Actually, I meant that I could sleep just as badly. My mind had raced throughout the night, going all sorts of places I would rather not think about in the absence of a problem to solve.

“Well, then you must eat something,” Watson implored. “You ate almost nothing yesterday.”

I groaned, “Please, stop, Watson.” You do not understand what this does to me. 

“If you say so, Holmes,” Watson said sadly, going back to his newspaper. He left me alone the rest of the day, asking only once if he could use the desk to make some notes in a medical journal.  
“Why do you need my permission?” I asked irritably. “You may use whatever you please; it is your sitting room too.”

“I would, only you left your latest monograph on it,” Watson said, gesturing towards the piles of papers I had left on the desk, waiting for me to edit them. “‘The distinctive texture and make of shoe leather’?” he asked.

“You would be surprised what subjects are useful to know in the field of detection,” I answered. In truth, I had grown bored with the monograph almost immediately, unable to see the purpose of writing yet another treatise no one but myself would read. “You may move that wherever you wish,” I added carelessly. 

“Holmes, are you sure you are all right?” he asked. “I have seen you in black moods before, but never this bad.”

I curled up on the settee without giving him an answer, and after a time he settled down to his writing. I resisted the urge to laugh. You have seen nothing yet, Watson.

Several agonizing hours later, in which the only sound was Watson’s pen scratching at the paper, and my only thought was how much I wished something would happen, and then remembering that even if something did happen, it would only end and leave me in the same state I was already in. I curled up even tighter on the settee, wondering if this was truly all there was to life. Surely it could not be any worse to be dead? At least then my mind might quiet down.

“Holmes? Holmes, my dear fellow, are you all right? You were breathing rather heavily. I was afraid you were working yourself into a state.” I looked up to see Watson watching me, the worry etched all over his face. 

I shook my head, unable to lie anymore to him. “Why?” I asked. “Why do you stay, Watson? Surely I cannot be any form of suitable company for you.”  
Watson sighed and brought the armchair over so he was sitting next to me, “I stay, Holmes, because I will not leave you alone to face these black moods. And in the hopes that when it passes, we might go for a walk.” He patted my shoulder gently. “And it will pass, as it always does. All in its own time, my dear Holmes.”

He quietly got up and went back to his writing, and I lay back on the settee, watching him curiously.

Thank God for him. How I was supposed to manage without him was a mystery even I could not solve.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just noticed it's been two years since I updated this. Sorry everyone. I don't write Holmes much anymore but I found this languishing in my files so I figured I might as well post it.

It was a rainy, dull morning in the autumn of 1895. I was sitting at my desk, attempting to write out one of Holmes’s latest cases, but I could not seem to make it beyond our client’s arrival.

Holmes himself was pacing the room, ostensibly sorting through his records of criminal activity for the previous year, but I felt his sharp gaze on me more than once. I resolutely ignored him, knowing that I had to finish writing this case by tonight. No sooner had I resolved to pay him no mind then he appeared at my shoulder, reading over what I had written so far.

“Really, Holmes, you know how I detest when you do that!” I said, sitting back with a sigh. He always sought to determine what I was writing about, and then to give me his unasked-for opinion about it. My writing was becoming more and more important to me, and yet every time Holmes looked at it, he found something to criticize. I was becoming rather tired of it.

True to my suspicions, Holmes ignored me, focusing on the beginning of my story, “I wish you wouldn’t make me so disgusted by ‘the fairer sex.’ It makes me seem positively ungentlemanly.” 

I read over the scene, where I portrayed Holmes speaking rather crossly to our young client, a governess, I believe. He had been in a particularly tetchy mood that day, as I recalled, although I had exaggerated the extent. “I thought you did not care at all as to how the public viewed you,” I said. Certainly he had never given me any indication that he wanted to be portrayed a certain way, or even took any interest in how those who could not bring him cases thought of him. 

“Yes, but one does not like to be misrepresented entirely, Watson,” Holmes said, settling down in the settee, the criminal records laid aside and forgotten. “I hardly dislike all women. Mrs. Hudson, for example, is an exemplar of her sex.”

I stared back at him. “Mrs. Hudson is a veritable saint,” I said. “You do realize no other landlady would consent to remain with bullet holes in her walls and the near-constant smell of chemical experiments?”

Holmes looked up at the V.R. that decorated the wall next to the fireplace and smiled before continuing. “Besides, apart from yourself and my brother, you must admit I have no great liking for men either,” he said.

That much was true; Holmes had little respect for anyone other than himself. While I had often wondered why I was exempt from his rule, now was not the time to debate it.

“And,” Holmes continued, “You must remember my admiration for Miss Irene Adler, now Mrs. Norton.” My gaze moved over to the framed photograph of Miss Adler on the table next to the settee. 

“Holmes, you do not need to convince me of your innocence of misogyny,” I said, to stop him from listing every instance where he had admired a woman and disliked a man. I knew well how little patience he had for either sex. “Don’t you remember what happened before I started portraying you this way?”

Holmes leaned back, only to spring up again, his eyes wide with recognition. “Is that why all those…distasteful letters stopped arriving?”

“You mean the ones where the female readers of my stories offered themselves to you in marriage on any date of your choosing?” I asked. “Yes, Holmes, that is why they stopped.” I had started out writing Holmes as accurately as I could, as the misanthropist he was, but the continual arrival of letters from women infatuated with him led me to change this true trait to the false one of misogyny. I had never seen Holmes so disturbed as he was each time he saw one of these missals. Each one was a breach of his highly private nature, and now that he had explained to me that the very idea of romantic attachment was one he had never experienced, or even understood, I quietly changed my writing tactic. I may not have understood his position on the matter, but it was clear to me that any perceived romantic interest upset him, and I had no wish to invite that discomfort into our lives.

“Oh,” Holmes said. “Well, in that case, I must thank you, Watson. I have never been comfortable as an object of romantic interest or affection, and I am very glad for any means you had to take to remove that threat.” He reached for the newspaper and disappeared behind it, a puff of smoke emerging above the pages every so often.

I turned back to my writing, wondering whether I had truly done him a service. Someday, this record would be all that remained of us, and the tale it told was not entirely true, or flattering to my friend. But I had permission to write as long as Holmes’s privacy remained intact (what little was left after his numerous high-profile cases and the fact that everyone in the Empire knew his address), and I knew I would stop writing immediately if he became too uncomfortable with the idea. So far he had not, and I was grateful for it. I enjoyed the writing almost as much as I enjoyed the cases, and would not have wanted to stop; it was only a matter of balancing fact with some exaggeration designed to give us a veil behind which to live our lives.

If the lack of infatuated letters and Holmes’s current peace of mind were any indication, I believe I had succeeded.


End file.
